


no-one can hurt me better than you

by pennyofthewild



Series: send a prompt, get a fic [6]
Category: Free!
Genre: Attempt at angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Melodrama, Mentions of Alcohol and Drunkenness, Terrible writing, future fish, jazz hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ Every reiteration is a pick-axe, chipping away at Haruka, revealing the imperfections, the ugliness underneath his skin. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	no-one can hurt me better than you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butleronduty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butleronduty/gifts).



> written for the [send me a ship and i'll write you a fic](http://pennyofthewild.tumblr.com/post/132014999533/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a) meme!! you can also read it here [@tumblr](http://pennyofthewild.tumblr.com/post/132261060676/souharu-10-please)
> 
> follows [**the saltwater room**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3316043) and is set before [**so long, see you tomorrow**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4683695), but can be read as a standalone. please don't continue if you are expecting quality!!

 

 

 

A pause: and the front door slams shut, with a resounding crash. The sound lingers in its wake, ripples traveling out from an epicenter, before fading into nothingness. The resultant silence is deafening: a palpable pounding within the confines of Haruka’s mind, tiny fists hammering against his skull. He stands in place, frozen:

Sousuke’s face swims behind his eyelids: unfriendly, pitiless, cold – cold, everything cold: the set of his jaw and the lines of his mouth and the naked fury in his eyes, gaze boring right through Haruka – rigid, unbending, like he _knew_ – knew he’d hurt Haruka, and he didn’t care.

This last thought – _Sousuke does not care_ – is the one that elicits a soundless gasp from Haruka’s throat, breathed into the cup of his hands. He sinks to the ground, the cold wooden floor hard and unforgiving under his hands and knees. His eyes prickle – hot, stubbornly dry.

 

The word echoes in his head: SELFISH – a mantra, repeated over, and over again. SELFISH, SELFISH, _SELFISH_.

 

Every reiteration is a pick-axe, chipping away at Haruka, revealing the imperfections, the ugliness underneath his skin.

 

It had been so easy for Sousuke to say. It is a talent of his – to take one look at Haruka and strip him down to his barest essentials: the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins, the thoughts hurtling at a million miles per hour within his mind in a way that nobody else – not even Makoto – can.

 

That is what makes it worse:

 

That he meant it.

 

That it is true.

 

The knowledge settles like a lump, solid in Haruka’s chest and throat, expands till he thinks he might choke on it.

 

Bile rises in his throat, thick and fast, and Haruka runs for the bathroom, throws up so violently he sees stars. He climbs into the bathtub afterwards, defeated, lets the water rise around him until it has enveloped him up to his chin, then his nose, till it is at eyelevel.  His gill slits peel open. He can see himself underneath the water’s surface – mottled blue and brown: the curve of his ribs (hot open-mouthed kiss), the jut of his hipbones (a scrape of teeth, a lingering shiver), the swell of his abdomen (the slow wet trail of tongue).

His body is a map Sousuke’s has traced so often Haruka can see the marks he’s left on his skin. He can feel him even now: pulling Haruka into his chest, splaying a large-fingered hand over his stomach, a hoarse whisper panted into his ear _you’re so fucking beautiful you know that_ –

 

It is interrupted by a frosty _how can you be so fucking selfish_ that rings hollow in his ears. It is like a knife twisting in his chest, the blade red-hot.

 

Haruka squeezes his eyes shut. Wishes he could drown.

 

***

 

The phone is slippery in Haruka’s hands as he holds it up to his ear, sucks in a breath through his mouth, listens for the dialtone, glass cradled loosely in his other hand. The alcohol burns down his throat and in his stomach: slow poison in his veins.

There is a beep, and a cool, dispassionate _the caller you have dialed cannot be reached at this time. Please leave a message after the tone_ sounds in Haruka’s ear. Haruka swallows, hands shaking.

 

It continues like this:

 

 Sousuke is everywhere –  in the kitchen, where a look at the table conjures his image in his favorite chair, reading the day’s news aloud.

 In the living room, where the TV sits, unused, because Haruka only watches the nature documentaries that come on two times a week.

In the garden, where his sunflowers wave merrily next to Haruka’s (more useful) vegetables.

In the spare room, where his clothes hang, neatly pressed, cologne wafting out of the closet every time it is opened.

 

The town is stamped with his presence, too, bears it like a brand: he is in the bakery, where the pastry chef smiles and gives Haruka a whole lemon pie “for the weekend”, and the convenience store, where Haruka nearly walks headfirst into a stack of cola crates as that stands as tall as he does.  

 

In a stranger’s steadying arm when Haruka stumbles on the curb.

 

Haruka sleepwalks through his week, tight-lipped, eyes burning. Spends nights in the bathtub, which is only slightly less suffocating than the bed. Downs the bottles in the kitchen’s bottom-left cupboard, one by one, to dull the feeling of restless panic that assaults him sober. If he puts it – the facing up – off long enough –

As Friday draws closer, however, a new sense of desperation brews in the pit of his stomach, combined with a deep-seeded, raw hopefulness that makes him sick. Even the house is silent, humming with an anxious sort of energy. But Friday comes and goes, and there is no sound at the front door, no footfalls on the stairs, no tired-but-tender _I’m home_ breathed into his hair.

 

Makoto finds him the next morning, collapsed in his overflowing bathtub.

 

“Did you try calling, Haru-chan?” Makoto asks, when he has persuaded Haruka into dry clothes and supplied him with a hot drink. He scrolls through Haruka’s voicemails – plays back the broken _I miss yous_ and the _will you come back_ s and the _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_.

“Maybe he hasn’t listened to them, yet,” Makoto says, bravely, and, “it’ll be alright, Haru,” into Haruka’s hair, wraps his arms around Haruka’s narrow shoulders, cradles Haruka’s face against his chest – and finally, finally, the dam breaks and Haruka cries, loud, ugly, wracking sobs that leave dark damp stains on Makoto’s t-shirt and leave Haruka spent.

 

***

 

It is fitting, then, that he dreams of Rin – sees a brief glimpse of dark red hair and a painfully familiar smile – hears a quiet _maybe it’s time to come home old friend; aren’t you tired of waiting_?

 

***

 

Two Saturdays later – Haruka wakes before sunrise. Walks barefoot down the temple steps, across the road, and down to the beach. Closer to the water, his feet sink into the sand – the deep imprints of his heels rapidly filling with water. An early morning breeze – heavy, moist with humidity  and the smell of brine – runs lazy fingers through his hair.

There is a faint light at the horizon, rays like an embrace, slowly spreading outward.

At the edge of the water – where the sand slopes down, and the waves lap the beach with long white tongues – Haruka pulls his jumper over his head, letting it drop. He steps ankle deep in the water, still in his shorts and t-shirt, the tug deep in his stomach intensifying. His skin prickles, scales extending, gill slits unsealing.

 

Haruka takes a deep breath, curls his fingers around the bottom of his shirt.

 

“Haruka!” the shout is like a crack in the still morning air, the voice hoarse, frantic, achingly familiar.

 

Breath caught like a sob in his throat, Haruka turns – sees Sousuke standing on the road, breathing hard. There is a brief pause – and then Sousuke starts down the embankment, nearly at a run, reaching Haruka within moments – stops just short of making physical contact. Up close, Haruka can see the dark circles underneath his eyes, the sallow undertone to his skin, the haggard look to his face.

 

“You look as bad as I feel,” Sousuke says, by way of greeting. He seems to be trying for lightheartedness, but the effect is ruined by the break in his voice.

 

“You didn’t return my calls, asshole,” Haruka says, choked. It is not particularly cold, but he is trembling – whether with nerves, or exhaustion, he is not sure.

 

Sousuke seems to consider something for a moment – and then he opens his arms, shoulders stiff, eyebrows questioning. Haruka steps in, presses the side of his face into Sousuke’s chest, breathes him in. He feels Sousue relax – muscles loosening, chin coming to rest on top of Haruka’s head, hand at the small of Haruka’s back.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sousuke exhales, breath stirring Haruka’s hair.

 

“I’m sorry, too,” Haruka says, into his shirt.

 

“You’re not the only selfish one, you know,” Sousuke sounds rueful. His arms tighten around Haruka, as if he is afraid Haruka might take offence.

 

“It takes two,” Haruka says seriously, and smiles when Sousuke laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-fin.

**Author's Note:**

> [ **the saltwater room**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3316043) I **no-one can hurt me better than you** I [**so long, see you tomorrow**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4683695)


End file.
